Something Like Magic
by ReadThisIt'sGood
Summary: When Lily and James are begrudgingly paired for a project, they launch into a dangerous game, doing everything in their power to distract the other. There's no point in denying where this is headed...but they will try their very best to.
1. Chapter 1

**Something Like Magic**

_For Kristen. You are the literal best. _

_**Chapter 1:**_

I suppose you could say this started when he caught my hair on fire. Or maybe it was that first day on the train all those years ago. Either way, it started. It's not going to end well, I know that for certain, and I'm going to do my best to preserve my dignity. I refuse to let that...that _excuse _for a wizard demean—

Why do I smell smoke?

Flames catch in my peripheral vision, and suddenly my neck is burning with heat.

"_Again, _Potter?" I cry, scrambling for my wand. I flash him a look that I hope petrifies him. If my hair wasn't on fire—again—I'd imagine there'd be smoke spewing out of my ears anyway. How can one _insolent _person make me so angry? I swear, it's practically magical how quickly that boy enrages me.

I whip my wand out to suffocate the flames, but he has beat me to it. A jet of water kills the fire in my hair and soaks the rest of me in the process.

I have officially surpassed the amount of done I thought I could be.

Potter and his friend—ah what's his name—Black are barely containing their laughter. Black is putting up much less of a fight, giggles escaping from the corner of his mouth.

"What the hell is so funny?" I demand. I don't care if Slughorn hears me. In fact, I hope that he does. Maybe he can invite those boys to scrub the crusted and rotten bottoms of the first years' cauldrons, or have them collect Alihotsy—it makes one go bonkers, you know—from the gardens.

With a sort of once over and a bitten lip, Potter catches my eyes and directs them downward: My blouse is entirely soaked. And entirely transparent.

Excellent.

Really excellent.

I hold my head high and continue to smash seeds and beans that the potion calls for. So what if the entire class can see my bra? I mean, it's not totally unattractive.

Oh, who am I kidding?

I'm mortified.

But they don't get the privilege of knowing that.

Slughorn lumbers by and peers at Potter's potion. Smoke blooms out of it and the frothing pulp smells like an old shoe. The professor shakes his head.

"This simply will not do, Mr. Potter. Do follow the instructions," he chides, and makes notes on a piece of parchment.

"But, professor, if I follow the instructions, I'll learn not nearly as much," Potter remarks.

"That's exactly true, sir," Black chimes in, "you said yourself just last week that we learn more from our failures."

"You have a point," Potter says. "In fact, I'd say that you're a downright genius, Professor Slughorn."

Black nudges his friend in the arm and turns to speak to him. "James, we already knew he was a genius. Although we failed to recognize just how much of a genius he was."

Potter cracks a smile, wide and brilliant. "You see, sir? We failed. Look how much we learned!"

Slughorn's drooping face spreads into a smile. "Boys, you always succeed in surprising me," he says jovially. "Continue your efforts to succeed in my class, though."

His quill scribbles across the parchment again.

Just as he is about to move to my cauldron, he looks up from his writing and glances back at Potter and Black. "And gentlemen, a word of advice: do consider opening your books next time."

Ha.

Professor Slughorn barely glances into my cauldron and grins. The liquid is pale pink and milky. Small bubbles collect around the edges and a ribbon of steam floats up from the center of it. "Nicely done, Miss Evans. Keep up the good work."

He jots notes on the parchment and then dismisses the class. It's lunch time, and so everybody scurries out as quickly as they can.

A thought strikes me as I gather my things into my bag. When he isn't looking, I toss a brown speckled quill right in front of Potter's feet.

"Oh, you've dropped something," I purr, making eye contact.

Slowly, I bend over to grab it. I wrap my fingers around the base of the quill and painstakingly slide back up, my face mere inches from the zipper of his trousers. When I meet his eyes again, I bite my lip and flip my hair over my shoulder. I let a coy smile touch my face.

"Is this yours?" I ask.

It's almost too difficult to keep the mischief out of my voice. I want so badly to laugh, but I know that there will be plenty enough cause to laugh later.

Potter doesn't speak.

Just stares at me with wide brown eyes.

I purposefully flick my gaze down to his lips—slightly chapped, slightly parted—and keep it there as I find his hand and press my quill into it.

"You know what, James?" I whisper, attempting to make my voice seductive. At the use of his name, I see his tongue flash out to wet his lips. I hold my fingers against his palm for an instant more, and then slowly stroke them up his wrist as I retract my hand. "You can keep it."

I turn over my shoulder, letting my hair fly and my hips swing. I walk a few steps before I turn around to look at him.

"You might want to visit the loo, Potter," I say. "Be a dear and don't think of me when you take of your little, um..." I glance at his crotch for emphasis. "Problem."

I saunter out of the potions room, and head for the Great Hall.

. . .

Transfiguration class. Woo hoo. It's not that I _don't _love Transfiguration, it's just that it fills me with such trembling rage and frustration that I can't even see straight. I tuck myself into a desk at the back corner of the classroom and fling my bag onto the floor.

Almost with grand entry music playing, Potter, Black, and the other two members of their unillustrious entourage parade through the double doors. They walk up to take their usual seats at the front of the classroom—which I may or may not have considered spiking with poisonous thorns. Potter tosses his head back at me, drops a wink, and mouths, "_I thought of you._"

Oh, that bastard.

Just as my hands begin to shake, the professor quiets everybody down.

"To start off the new quarter," he announces in that shrill little voice, "we will begin a project in which you will _invent _a new Transfiguration spell. You must follow all of the rules and guidelines put in place by the Ministry about spell reformation and creation. These can all be found in the library or on page 1206 in the appendix of your text books."

Okay. Not an egregiously boring assignment. At least we're not putting ourselves in some delusional world of classic wizard literature. Or analyzing the historical and literary affects on some ancient wizard culture. Because that is utter bullshit.

"One other thing, students. You'll be working with a partner."

My friend Gemma and I make eye contact from across the room.

"Your partners have been predetermined, and you may check the list at the end of the period."

Damn.

At the end of class, I check the list.

_Evans, Lily and Potter, James._

Awesome. Just Awesome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Something Like Magic**

_**Chapter 2:**_

_Two months later:_

"He shouldn't have said that. Or done that. I'm sorry," James whispers. There's a strange tenderness in his voice as his arms wrap me in a perfect cage.

I sniffle, knowing exactly how pathetic and vulnerable I look—in front of _him_.

"Your apologies won't make it any better."

My voice is clogged and sad, shakily spewing words.

Then a thought comes to me and I let out a laugh, harsh and acidic in this little fuzzy scene we have created.

"Never did I think I'd see the day when James—James _Potter_, mind you—would be apologizing for Severus Sna—"

I almost say his name and my voice shatters and I hate myself for it and I wish...

I don't know what I wish. I'm a witch; I've got the capabilities to make any wish of mine come true, but what good is magic if I don't know what I want?

James tucks a piece of my hair back behind my ear as tears spill down my checks. He lets them fall and looks in my eyes. I never noticed that his eyes were the exact color of melting chocolate. Mmm. It is a safe color and I want to hide inside of it.

And when he presses the softest of kisses to my forehead, it's not ironic at all.

. . .

Gemma finds me after class as we're walking Divination.

"Merlin, Lily," she breathes. "You're paired with Potter, that's...that's horrendous. Ask the professor to switch. Work with me instead!"

Gemma sounds positively scandalized and I love her for it. She's a Hufflepuff, so loyal and usually kinder than anyone else in any given situation. Somehow, our opposites bring us closer. She is quiet and timid except when it's just the two of us, where I've been told I'm opinionated and bold.

"Yeah, I'll tell him I'm allergic to whatever stupid cologne he wears," I mutter. "He reeks like an animal and somehow finds a way to make sure I'm constantly smelling it."

"Perfect!" Gemma cries. "Just make sure to cough plenty when you're telling him, yeah?"

We laugh together. If only that'd work. But the professor ensured us that there could be no. Switching. Partners. What. So. Ever.

"Oh, look there's your boyfriend now," Gemma groans, gesturing across the hall.

Severus Snape steps off of a moving staircase, tightly following a group of those Death Eater boys. Potter and his merry band of men in tights were obnoxious. Repulsive, even. But those Death Eaters—the name sounds like a bad muggle cover band—were treacherous. The rumors I've heard...

Why Sev is so snugly with them all of a sudden, I have no idea.

His chin is tucked to his chest, his eyes are cast down at the floor, and his lack of color seems more apparent than usual. He is a stark, bleached contrast against the vibrant students talking and laughing. What could I have done to him that has made him despise me so? Or what have his delightful new friends done?

"Come on," Gemma urges. "Stop over thinking things, yeah? We've got to get to class."

. . .

Divination was fun.

That was a lie.

Spooky symbols of cheerful woodland animals arose in my tea leaves and the swirling smoke in the glass ball claims that I'm going to die much too young—that's all bullshit, let me tell you.

To think I get marks for this insanity.

. . .

Dinner is over and I'm walking to the Girls' Dormitory, ready to collapse. Well. Do an egregious amount of homework and then collapse. Dinner was almost delicious, but I was such a seething cauldron of emotions by the end of the day that I wasn't feeling hungry in the slightest. Between having to spend the next three months working on a massive project with _James Potter_, seeing Severus with his new Death Eater friends, having to suffer through an endless Divination class, and the fact that dinner was some just a smattering of vegetable concoctions, I was done.

"Oi, Evans!"

I steel myself against that voice that is part smoke, part wood chipper.

"Potter, I am in no mood to lower my IQ in order to communicate with you, so please be on your way," I say, not turning to look at him. I hear a prance of footsteps and suddenly he's swallowed in my peripheral.

"Look, I know you're not totally euphoric with the idea of us working together," he says.

"Oh, I applaud your keen receptive skills. Good for you, Potter," I croon.

"You're so funny. Hilarious, really. Anyway. Let's just get this over with. Despite popular belief, I happen to not be completely daft and we can...I dunno...find a way to make this not so miserable."

"I'm sure you'll think of something really original," I retort sharply. "You keep me updated."

Then I suddenly feel his fingers around my wrist, iron hard and stubborn, pulling me out of the corridor and into a hallway. With his free hand he pries open the wooden door of a broom closet and slings me inside of it. He quickly follows and shuts the door, leaning against it before I can move to open it.

"Let go of me!" I demand.

His fingers spring apart and release my wrist.

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I'm trying to make this a little more pleasant for the both of us. Or did you not understand that because—what was it?—failed to lower your IQ? You're not exactly being a ray of sunshine."

For a moment I'm speechless.

For a moment I'm distracted by the breath that whistles between his parted lips. I've seen those lips sneer and smile and retort and purse but I've never noticed how...plush they are. Hmm. I wonder—

Damn it, Lily. Focus.

"I mean," he says smokily, breaking the silence, "feel free to continue ogling at my mouth, but if my attractiveness is going to be a distraction, then I have a feeling that this partnership is going to work out much differently than I had anticipated."

In my head, I slap him across that face. The stubble on his jaw burns my hand and I leave an imprint of my fingers on his skin.

In my head, I grab his jaw and kiss the life from his lungs. Reckless and hungry, I dance with his lips until neither of us has any air, neither of us can talk. I run my fingertips across his chest, skate them down his abdomen, worship the insanity that breathes fire between the two of us,

In my head, I scream as loud as humanly possible until someone hears me and rescues me.

But I do none of them.

Instead I calmly say, "You're not distracting."

Bad choice.

He smirks, a delicious thing on that hated face, and quirks his eyebrows as he lets out a little laugh. His eyes are electric behind his glasses.

"We'll see."

And he leaves the broom closet. I let out a massive huff of air I didn't realize I was holding and slumped down to the floor to reconsider my life choices.

. . .

When I finally crumple in a heap of tired flesh and scattered thoughts to my bed, I realize there's a note beneath my chest. I fish it out and smooth out the wrinkles.

_Meet me in the library tomorrow during free period. Don't forget, Evans._

_-Not Distracting_

. . .

I have the strangest nightmare.

Potter and I are in the broom closet. The light is dim, flickering over brick walls and bare skin and thin framed glasses. There's no space between us. There's nothing between. Somehow I know that our clothes are somewhere on the floor and we stumble over them as he walks me backwards and presses me against a wall. Cool wall. Flaming skin. His lips press along my jaw and then down my neck. He brands me with his kisses. He tastes the pulse point that flutters in my throat and strokes his hands—warm, surprisingly calloused—down my arms. Against my collarbone, he mutters my name.

_Lily._

I whisper back.

_James. _

And also:

_Stop teasing me._

_Come here._

I cup his chin—rough and stubbled—and pull him up to me with no hesitation. I stare into his eyes and kiss him. Passionately. Desperately. Familiarly. And I don't stop.

. . .

I wake with my heart pounding a marathon in my chest and sweat on my face. Only one though is clear in my mind:

_Why were there no brooms in the broom closet?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Something Like Magic**

_**Chapter 3:**_

_Two Months Later:_

"Lily," he says. "_Lily_."

My name is something new and beautiful and tragic in his mouth. Two months ago, I would have cringed at the sound of it, but now I'm drawn towards it. Drawn towards him.

We sit side by side on the floor of the empty library. Our original intent was to practice the charm in a place that was empty and quiet. The library was perfect. But I walked in and just sort of sat down against that endless wall that was crowned with stained glass windows. James walked in not two minutes later and planted himself right next to me.

It's midnight or somewhere near then and palpable moonlight beams through the window. Half of my body is lit with it, and the rest of me—and him too—is cloaked in shadow. The air is cold but he is not and my shoulder touches his, the only part of me that's warm. Our hands brush on the ground and my bones crackle with electricity.

I feel as if this is a scene from a muggle romance novel. I'm not as disturbed as I should be by that. Hmm.

"Lily," he says again. "Look at me."

I do. I know that he can see the hurt that has been living in my eyes for the past few days. I am sure that it's potent.

James's fingertips find my cheek. Then his palm, and then he lifts my face to look right at his. Those brown eyes are a kaleidoscope of warmth in the cool moonlight and they bore right into mine. Scruffy black hair falls slightly over his forehead and I reach to push it back. My hand somehow gets lost, or stuck, or unwilling to move anymore and James leans his head against my hand.

And then it just sort of happens.

We're kissing.

We've snogged before: all of those teasing, ironic times.

But they have all been building up to this.

Our lips sweep against each other, again and again. And again. Then more firmly, he presses his mouth right against mine, and it feels like he is sealing some gaping hole inside of me that was left by someone I thought I could call a friend.

James begins to chuckle, not breaking the kiss. If anything, his laughter impassions him and his coils an arm around my waist, turning me so that our bodies are parallel. I wrap my arms around his neck.

"Do you find my kissing humorous?" I whisper against his lips.

"Not at all," he replies, and at _all_, his tongue flicks my lower lip.

I push a kiss against his grinning lips and then move to the corner of his mouth. Then I taste the shape of his smile. Stubble on his jaw burns my skin and it feels lovely; I feel alive.

"I just think it's funny," he says into my ear, giving the delicate skin a teasing kiss, "that this has taken so damn long."

As James impatiently tugs my face back to his, he makes a noise that boils my blood and transforms me into something entirely _other_. I unwind my arms from around him and slowly slide them down his body. He kisses me harder. I tilt my head into the kiss, reveling in this friction. When my flat palms reaches his lower stomach—hardened from Quidditch—he makes that noise again.

I laugh and undo his belt buckle.

. . .

Free period. Library. Alright, let's get this over with.

I see Potter sitting at a table towards the back corner of the library. That chaos of black hair on his head is an obnoxious contrast against the fading spines of books that clutter the walls.

I take a deep breath.

_You can do this, Lily. He's just a guy. You put up with his antics and general hideousness of character each day, right? It's no different now._

As I walk in his general direction, I pass two mugs of coffee sitting on an abandoned table. They are full of the dense black liquid and practically have my name scrawled across them. I peek over at Potter to see if he's watching. His nose is buried in a large and rather unpleasant looking blue book. An unusual sight.

I slip my wand out to sanitize the mugs and reheat the coffee.

I mutter the spells under my breath.

There.

Good as new.

I tuck my wand away into the back pocket of my trousers, pick up the two mugs, and maneuver through towering stacks of books to meet Potter at his table.

"Er, hi," I say. He looks up from his reading, looking completely bored. A quick glance tells me that the book is upside down.

"Your book is upside down," I note, keeping sharper words that come to mind at bay.

Without missing a single beat, he replies, "Oh, it's much too easy to read right side up. I was in the mood for a challenge."

"That's...great. I, erm, brought a peace offering."

I jut a mug out at him, careful not to slosh the liquid too terribly.

This is much to bizarre. I should be splashing the coffee at his face as opposed to handing it to him. I should be raging war instead of making a blasted _peace offering_.

As he reaches for the handle of the cup, his fingers touch mine and I startle at the contact. My hand feels much to warm. It's most likely from the holding the warm cup.

"Thank you," he says, placing the steaming mug down. "I was wondering where I set these down. I had brought them for the two of us, but I'm sure that the coffee will taste much better coming from you."

Damn.

So close.

. . .

We argued for about half an hour about what sort of charm we should create. Potter didn't feel so positively about an empty coffee mug into breath mints. Perhaps he was so disagreeable because I suggested that he desperately needed one. Idea after idea, he turned them down, not once offering a suggestion of his. When I brought up something to do with an animagus, something in that field, he went batshit bonkers.

Just as I am about to suggest another brilliant and only vaguely insulting idea, he bites the corner of his lower lip. It's a small action, just a tug on the plush flesh of his mouth. But then his tongue sweeps across his lips and for some reason, I can't make myself look away.

"What were you saying, Evans?" he asks.

I blink twice. Hard.

Had I really stopped speaking?

"What?"

He runs his fingers through his hair, stirring more chaos into that black mess.

"You were in the middle of saying something," he replies, stretching his arms high above his head with his hands clasped.

There's a desk between us, but I imagine that if I could see, a strip of skin would be revealed as his shirt lifts.

Wait.

I narrow my eyes and say bitterly, "I see what you're doing, Potter, and It's not funny."

His eyebrows draw together, and an innocent facade falls over his face. I don't believe it for an instant.

"What exactly am I doing?"

"Cute," I retort. "You know exactly what you're doing... you're trying to distract me."

"Hmm," he ponders, "I've never been called 'cute' before. Sexy, attractive, hot...but never cute. Huh. You learn something new every day."

"Oh, knock it off, Potter. I was already tired of your crap. I don't need this too."

"Whatever do you mean?" he asks innocently.

I roll my eyes and gather my things. I've had enough of this. An entire hour. Wasted. I am done suffering the displeasure of his presence for today. Turning my back on him, I make a beeline for the doorway.

"Nice working with you, Evans," he calls.

I flash around to see him: a wide, mischievous smile swells on his face.

. . .

_Dear Diary,_

_I simply despise the concept of a diary, but I'm down with my ridiculous Muggle Appreciation assignment and I am bored to tears. I have only one thought for today that I have decided should go down with me in history. If I am remembered by nothing other than this, then so be it._

_James Potter is without a doubt a complete asshole._

_That is all._

_With contempt,_

_Lily 3_

_. . ._

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